Page 17 of Broken Doll

He didn't even blink. Just stared, unimpressed, waiting for me to fall in line like a well-trained dog. "Three minutes. Down the hall."

"Eat glass," I mutter as I drag myself from the warmth of my bed.

Then he was gone, boots echoing against concrete. I dragged a hand through my tangled hair, mouth tasting like death warmed over, and stumbled to the sink. The mirror showed the damage—eyes bloodshot, skin pale except for bruises blooming purple where Killion's fingers had dug in, hair a rat's nest. I looked like warmed over dog shit but felt oddly alive, that sick thrill still buzzing under my skin.

Three minutes to transform from roadkill to government asset. Challenge accepted.

I threw water on my face, dragged a brush through my hair, and pulled on the clean clothes from the dresser—black leggings, fitted tank, combat boots. Basic bitch spy-wear, but at least it wasn't a prison jumpsuit. Small fucking victories.

Killion was waiting in a room I hadn't seen before—larger than my cell, with actual furniture. A metal table, chairs, and what looked like training mats covering half the floor. The air smelled different too—less antiseptic, more human. Coffee, maybe, and something else I couldn't place.

"Sienna?" I arch a brow, fishing again, but he's already moving, brushing past me to the door, his shoulder grazing mine—hard muscle, cold control. Before I can push, the door swings open, and she steps in—Sienna, I'm guessing.

She's shorter than me, lean and wiry, all sharp edges and coiled menace. Springy curls crop tight to her skull, framing a face that's more bone than flesh—high cheekbones, a jaw like a razor, pale blue eyes that cut like glass. She's in black—tight leggings, a fitted jacket, boots laced to her calves—moving silent as a shadow, a predator's grace in every step. A thin scar slashes her left eyebrow, white and jagged, a mark she wears like a medal.

She stops beside Killion, hands loose but primed, and I feel her sizing me up—the rumpled tank, the shadow of exhaustion under my eyes, the defiance I wear like armor.

"Landry," Killion says, nodding at me like I'm a tool on a rack. "This is Sienna. She'll be handling your specialized training." He pauses, eyes flicking between us. "I have other matters to attend to. She'll take it from here."

And just like that, he's gone—the door slamming with a finality that echoes in my bones. I'm left with Sienna and the sudden weight of "specialized training" hanging in the air like a guillotine.

She circles me slowly, those ice-chip eyes taking in every detail, from my tangled hair to my clenched fists. "Killion tells me you've been performing adequately in physical training," she says, voice low and raspy, like she smokes two packs a day. "But you're nowhere near field-ready and we're on a deadline."

I meet her stare, unflinching. "Define 'field-ready.'"

Her lips quirk, not quite a smile. "That's why I'm here." She stops in front of me, close enough I can smell her—gunmetal and something spicy, expensive. "My job is to make sure you can handle any situation, any target."

"I've fucked my way through half of LA's elite," I shoot back, arms crossing. "I think I can handle a horny mark without your help."

Sienna's laugh is sharp, more scalpel than sound. "You think this is about fucking? That's amateur hour." She leans in, voice dropping to a murmur. "This is about control. About becoming whatever they need, whoever they want—man, woman, doesn't matter. Your job is to be the perfect fantasy, the ultimate weapon."

My stomach tightens, the implication sinking in. "Wait—women too? I'm not?—"

"Gay?" She finishes, eyebrow arching. "Your sexuality is irrelevant. You'll be whatever the situation calls for." Her voice hardens, all business. "Men are easy—predictable, driven by egoand base desire. Women are harder to fool. More intuitive, more cautious. You need to know the difference."

I step back, that reckless defiance flaring. "I don't swing that way."

Sienna moves faster than I can track, her hand snaking out to grab my wrist, twisting until I'm forced to my knees, pain shooting up my arm. She leans down, her face inches from mine, those blue eyes glacial.

"Listen carefully, because I won't repeat myself," she hisses, breath hot against my cheek. "Your preferences don't matter. Your comfort doesn't matter. All that matters is the mission." She releases me, stepping back as I rub my wrist, glaring up at her. "Your body is a weapon, your sexuality a tool. Get used to it."

I climb to my feet, skin burning where she'd gripped me, pride stinging worse. "Fine," I spit, shoulders squaring. "Teach me."

Something shifts in her eyes—approval, maybe, or just cold calculation. "We'll start with the basics," she says, moving to the table, pulling out files, photos, graphs that look like fucking science experiments. "Men respond to visual cues, direct approaches. Women require finesse, connection. Both require reading body language, spotting tells, exploiting weaknesses."

"Sounds like a blast," I mutter, but I follow her to the table, that sick curiosity already taking hold. This is fucked up, twisted—but isn't that exactly what I signed up for? The ultimate game, the ultimate thrill?

Sienna tosses the folder aside. "Theory's a waste of time. You need practical experience."

She moves toward me, fluid and dangerous, like mercury encased in skin. Her hand cups my face, thumb brushing my bottom lip, and I freeze—not from fear but from the sheer unexpectedness of it.

"Women are about power," she murmurs, voice dropping an octave. "Not taking it—sharing it. That's what men never understand."

Her fingers trace my jawline, featherlight, sending electricity skittering under my skin. This isn't seduction, not exactly—it's a demonstration, clinical and precise, but my body doesn't know the difference. Heat blooms in my core, a traitorous response I can't control.

"Goddamnit," I breathe, trying to step back, but she's already anticipated the move, her other hand sliding to the small of my back, holding me in place.

"You're fighting it," she observes, those laser-blue eyes scanning my face. "That's your first mistake. Resistance creates tension. Tension creates tells." Her fingers drift lower, tracing the pulse point at my throat. "Let it happen. Observe it. Control it."

---